


i thought you said collage not college

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society, Alternate Universe - Magic, Blind Dave, Deaf Karkat Vantas, F/F, Gen, Humanstuck, M/M, Magical Realism, Maybe mild drama IDEK, No Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-23 03:25:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8312200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: "Oh my god. I've been making a collage for the past three years. Are you telling me that's not what I was supposed to be doing!?"Dave, a college dropout, owns an apartment, and ends up renting it out to Karkat Vantas.





	1. And all shall know the wonder

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [And One Day All will Know](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7257721) by [godtiermeme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme). 



> if you're looking for some information on any of my other fics, they're dead. unless i have another idea or someone decides to send me a good idea, they're dead. you can turn off the styling by ignoring author styling (it's a button at the top)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [the song of purple summer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hl4ZsWVUCro)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anything in brackets is signed
> 
> short. my writing muse is dead and i'm working on running an etsy and other shit like school, so idek how much i'll be able to update but please comment and leave any suggestions and feedback and correct my probably numerous typos

**Your name is Karkat Vantas…**

The door to the tiny three-bedroom generic home is a pale grey. The walls are a light sky blue, and the roofing tiles are a peculiar shade of brown. Specifically, you find that the tiles look like little rectangles of shit. They look like shit; their color is exactly like shit. And if the beginning of this affair is anything to go by, your stay here is going to be about the same.

When the door swings open, your beliefs are only solidified.

The man who greets you—the owner of the house, with whom you've discussed the arrangements online—is just as obnoxious as he'd looked online. His aviators are thick-framed, ugly things, and they're at least twice the size appropriate for his face. They droop like a basset hound's face; unfortunately, they're not nearly as cute. In fact, they're annoying as hell. They'll definitely complicate things, seeing as your language depends on facial expression and physical cues. Not that you plan on talking to the bastard much. He's already said that he's got as little interest in befriending you as you have in speaking to him. You'll keep your communication to the absolute minimum, and that's how it'll stay. Besides that, you've got better things to do than try and get along with a guy with whom you can barely speak to, anyhow.

It sounds awful. It  _is_ awful, but you sure as hell don't have the time or energy to bother considering your morals. Your morals are fucking dead, anyhow. You killed them a while ago. And you're going to continue to kill them as you try to process the sloppy sign that Dave is relaying to you.

[I've prepared your room. It's on the fourth…] Dave stops. He backtracks and tries again. [Second floor. It's on the second floor.]

"Fucking lovely," you mutter under your breath. Sure, you're Deaf, but you can theoretically speak. You've been told that you sound "incredibly normal," and you're honestly not too concerned if that's a lie or not. Again, not enough time and not enough energy. Why bother giving a fuck about things that aren't worth anything? If anything, you're consistently pissed that people say that. The implications rub you all the wrong ways. "Thanks for the room and all that shit." You hoist your bags onto your shoulder, grab your rolling suitcase, and practically spring up the stairs.

The less time you have to interact with the world's most painful, certified tool, the happier you'll be.

* * *

**Your name is Dave Strider…**

Rose Lalonde is your sister. She's also married, and her wife is Kanaya. Both of them are perfectly fine people, but you're not sure letting them live with you was a good idea. In fact, you're certain it wasn't a good idea. Now, you've got a full house, and it's not _the_ Full House. It's more like some sort of hellish existence of three people in one house with one bathroom. Now, it's four.

It also doesn't help that she's been bugging you for the past few weeks over this new arrangement.

"He's pretty cute, Dave," she hums as you return to the dining room table. "You'd be pretty cute together. Just like me and Kanaya."

"Really?" you grumble as you tie your cane to one of your belt loops, as you often do. "Look, Rose, I don't give a shit how cute that fucker is. We're not compatible, and we never will be. And it's not the logistics—" here, you pause. You reconsider this statement before continuing, "I mean, it  _is_ the logistics, but he's also a preachy fucker. I'd rather gag myself with a fuckin' sword than bother trying to put up with any more than five words from that windbag. And he didn't get off to a good start by refusing to use lowercase whenever he messaged me."

"Whatever, Dave." A bemused sigh. The blurred shapes in front of you alert you to the fact that Rose has topped off your coffee.

You take immediate advantage of this. You chug the entire thing before sliding the cup across the table. It clinks against an empty glass water bottle—a peculiarity of Kanaya's—before shattering on the tiled kitchen floor.

"Cup ninety-three," Rose comments, grabbing her dark purple purse from the table. "You're cleaning that up, Dave, because I did it last time."

"Have fun with that," you reply with a nonchalant wave. As the sound of her footsteps and quiet grumbling recede, eventually leading to the door slamming closed, you pull a box of cigarettes from your pocket and light one. While you're not exactly able to see it in great detail, you take great pride in your lighter. It's a novelty thing. The top is Darth Vader, and the flame comes out of his mouth. Definitely not the safest idea; you've burned yourself on it multiple times, and right now isn't an exception.

"FUCK!" The exclamation leaves you as the lighter clacks against the tile. You shake your hand until the stinging stops before fumbling around with the lighter. It takes you a few tries to find it, but you also manage to find a chip clip and the matchbox car you thought you lost when you moved in. (Ultimately, you find it under the cabinet Rose uses to display her shitty, fancy porcelain.)

* * *

**Your name is Karkat Vantas…**

Dinner begins with an unceremonious declaration from the apparent legal owner of the property. "Chow's fuckin' done," he yells this in spite of the fact that you're sitting at the dining room table, which is in the same room as he's in—the fucking kitchen. Or, maybe, it's to spite the fact. He seems to know you're there, because he slides you a plate of disgusting-looking slop. More accurately, it looks like a meatloaf had severe diarrhea, and turned itself into its own putrid shit. It's little more than seasoned ground beef on a plate. The most you can say about its looks is that it's all on the plate.

As if he can read your mind, Dave adds something to his commentary. After setting down his own plate, he returns to his sloppy, confusing, and aloof signing. [I know it's ugly. I promise it's decent.] As if the action will somehow add credibility to this claim, he slides a fork across the table. Then, he sits down and begins shoveling his meal into his face like a starving _Oliver Twist_ orphan.

 _If this bastard doesn't kill me, I might just jump in front of the bus myself._ The thought crosses your mind as you take a tentative bite of your meal.

Despite your initial apprehension, you have to grudgingly admit that it's a decent meal. You're not about to admit it out loud, though. Hell no. You're keeping your goddamned dignity; you're not giving him so much as a hint of satisfaction. Instead, you continue to slowly consume your surprisingly palatable meal.


	2. What's wrong today?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Red and Black" from _Les Misérables_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oBn1UHtYP9Q)

**Your name is Karkat Vantas…**

The window panes visibly rattle as wind beats against them. Droplets of water slide down their fogged-over surface, and, according to your phone, the weather today isn't going to be too pleasant. In fact, it'll be… unpleasant. Rainy, dreary, and hot. If you know one thing about Skaia, it's that heat means humidity. And humidity means annoyance. Not that you're really concerned about the heat and humidity combo; you've never been bothered by heat. It's just annoying. Everything gets damp and your reading glasses fog up whenever you try and step foot outside.

Of course, it's not the worst thing that can and will happen today. The worst thing is definitely the fact that you're grabbed by a blonde woman—someone who looks remarkably like Dave—before you can leave. She drags you into the kitchen, sets you down in front of the dining table, and produces before you a plate of scrambled eggs and some unknown meat patty.

Now, you're certainly grateful for the breakfast. You're no shitty diehard ingrate. But, you're concerned about a few things. First of all, you _were_ born into an Indian family. Sure, you've started sliding on the scale of faiths, and you're now closer to atheism than anything, but you instinctively avoid eating cows. Old habits die hard, so they say. Other than that, there's _him_.

The blond jackass. Dave goddamned Strider. Today, however, he doesn't have the ugly shades on. His eyes are visible—milky white with irises of vivid blood red. His face is also a lot more interesting than you initially believed it would be. His eyebrows seem to be meticulously maintained, though you're not entirely sure how. It dawns upon you that he has a fine and defined chin. His nose is neither too large nor too small; in fact, it's almost perfect. It is, however, slightly crooked—a fact noticeable only when he's not wearing those outlandish shades.

For some reason, a few minutes after you sit down, Dave jumps. He drops his fork, upon which there's a hunk of scrambled eggs, and offers you a sheepish smile. [Sorry about Rose. She can be a real pain.] The word "pain" seems to cause a lot of problems. The motion is correct. Two fingers, the tips pointed towards one another, jabbing inwards while the wrists twist the hands in a manner reminiscent of wringing out a towel. His hands, however, are misaligned. They're not on the same straight line plane as they should be. It's something that confuses you. Sure, he's blind, but he should know how his body relates to the space around him. He should be aware of himself.

You're not about to bring up these concerns, however. You're not a complete asshole. Nonetheless, you give in to your urges. You reach across the table, grab his left wrist, and right his pose.

[Sorry.] His left hand forms a fist and, with the fingers facing in, rubs against his chest in a few clockwise circles. [It's too early for this shit.]

You clear your throat and begin to articulate yourself out loud. Sound by sound. Syllable by syllable. It's a draining task, but you feel obligated to speak to him. After all, that's what people do at dinner tables. People don't sit there like chimpanzees in steel boxes; no, people speak to one another. That's the social standard, and you're going to damn well follow it if it keeps you from sleeping on the campus benches. "That's understandable." You pause. The blonde woman from before has joined another woman—someone tall, with dark brown skin, and thick, natural hair—and seems to be preparing to go somewhere. At the very least, she's gathering her things into a Victorian-style purse. It all reminds you of what you meant to ask. "Who else is in here?"

[I didn't mention Rose and Kanaya?] Dave frowns. His brows furrow. [Sorry. Rose is my sister. Kanaya's her girlfriend. Maybe her wife. I'm not big on keeping up with everyone else's love lives.] He laughs, and the motion seems to be indicative of a breathy, hoarse sort of laughter. Of course, that's just a guess.

You, however, find little in the statement to laugh about. "Whatever." You shrug.

* * *

**Your name is Dave Strider…**

His voice is halting and hesitant, but it's loud. It's damned loud, and you want nothing more than to lunge across the table and press your thumbs over his windpipe and yell at him to shut the fuck up. Damn. Dammit. He practically yells everything he says. And you know it's not something he can exactly help, but it's a problem. It's giving you a headache. Your mental joke that his voice could cause hearing damage becomes less and less amusing with every passing moment.

[Are you okay?]

"I'm fine," he responds, his voice surprisingly sharp. "Look, this is…" He pauses. There's the quiet shuffling of cloth against skin. The scraping of plastic plates against the wooden table. You get the feeling that he's not looking at you. "I'm tired."

While you're aware of the fact that it might come across as snide, you can't help but offer some well-intended reminders. [Don't you have class today? And you've still got a few things in the living room to pick up.]

"Tired of talking," he snaps. Again, you're aware that he might not know about his tone of voice. He probably doesn't. Still, you feel like he's annoyed with you. With Rose, you're often allowed to at least have a hand on her shoulder. If she tenses, it's a pretty obvious sign. With Karkat, however, you don't have that luxury. You're simply left to ponder the meaning behind his words.

The chair screeches against the tiles as he gets up. Silverware clanks, a glass rings as it hits the faucet. His footsteps recede. _Clop. Clop… Clop… Clop._ After a few minutes, the door slams closed. The tacky, bright pink welcome sign that Rose hangs on the door to annoy you bounces on its loose hanger. Now, you wouldn't be annoyed if you couldn't see a damned thing, but being able to see splotches of color in good lighting conditions is hell on the eyes, especially when your front door is dark brown with a sudden, eye-gouging shade of neon pink in the middle. (You still need to think of a way to get back at Rose for this.)

* * *

**Your name is Karkat Vantas…**

Your attentions are monopolized by a man with wild black hair and eyes as blue as the clearest water or the most picturesque ice-capped mountain. He seems to have a goofy, toothy grin perpetually plastered across his face, and his name just so happens to be John Egbert. He's a long-time friend of yours, and he's similarly acquainted with Dave. [How's living with Dave going?] Though John can hear perfectly, he took ASL in middle school. It's how the two of you met.

[It's hell, and I hate you for recommending it.] You roll your eyes at John.

In return, he adjusts his thick-rimmed, rectangular, black glasses. He opens his mouth and his shoulders shake. Laughter. [You'll warm up to him. He's a tough asshole to crack.]

You gag. [Don't put it like that ever again, Egbert.] Your sign for John is simple. Your right hand forms an 'E,' and you draw a rectangle around your eye. It's a reference to his glasses, which are the first things people notice about him.

[Shut up, man.] With another of his trademark smiles, he gently shoves your shoulder.

You file away the information he's given you. You're seriously skeptical that you'll ever get along with the pompous asshole, but keeping John's information in the back of your mind isn't going to hurt anyone. Besides, nothing's impossible. There's still that 0.0001 percent chance that you might end up getting along with Dave. In the meantime, you return to the present. You offer your own smile—a small, slightly lopsided smirk more than anything—as you motion for John to follow you. [You shut up.] To emphasize your point, you designate your subject more dramatically than you usually would. You jab an extended index finger towards John, stopping just short of poking him squarely in the middle of the sternum. [Come on. The dining hall is going to stop serving lunch before we can get there if you keep spewing shit like you've got botulism.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments, feedback, and suggestions are still super appreciated


	3. You swear you've heard it before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Just an Old Fashioned Love Song" by Paul Williams](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RpPIbAec0E8)

**Your name is Karkat Vantas…**

[Yeah. I'm Daredevil.] As usual, his face is infuriatingly stoic. It's almost amazing how indifferent he can seem. With his perpetual look of disinterest and his air of distance. And, yet, at the same time, he's sprawled out on the floor. Blood drips from his split bottom lip, and the left lens of his shades is shattered. In his state of disheveled shock, he gropes around for his cane, never once wincing when his finger pricks against a shard of sharp glass. It's an odd, almost surreal experience. It's something you just can't manage to wrap your head around. How is he so calm? If you'd done what he had, you'd be mortified. And, yet…

"I'm going to be late for class," you say aloud, your brows furrowing.

[Comforting.] Dave removes his shades and clips them to the collar of his shirt. At the same time, you catch a glimmer of a tattoo of a spinning vinyl record. It's motion lines extend and disappear up his left forearm, only to be cut off by his rolled up sleeves.

You can't exactly ignore it. "Why bother getting tattoos?" Though it adds absolutely nothing to the statement, especially in light of the circumstances, you gesture towards the design.

He simply shrugs. Removing his glasses is enough for you to see his expression fully. His brows are furrowed in an odd, not-exactly-angry sort of way. [I got it before my vision decided to check out of the Hotel Strider. And it wasn't even decent enough to pay rent or anything.]

You nod. Either he's making some obtuse joke, or you've ended up rooming with a complete off-the-wall weirdo. Not that you'd put it past John to recommend you a landlord with some peculiar quirks.

[I'd planned on getting it for my thirteenth birthday, seeing as I was an adult. I got it for my fourteenth instead. It's a long, crappy story. You're definitely not interested.] With that much said, he waves you off in the most infuriating way possible. He stumbles to his feet and looks around for a few moments—you can only assume it's to demonstrate a feeling more than to serve a purpose—before offering a flat inquiry. [Have you seen a bag of those Extreme Goldfish?]

"What?" This time, you can't hide your confusion. "Goldfish?"

[Extreme Goldfish. The ones with extra flavor.] He smirks after this and leans his shoulder against the inner edge of the archway between the kitchen and the living room. Quirking his brow, he buries his hands in his pockets.

"You make no sense." You frown. "None. I've had more sensible conversations with a tomato."

Removing his hands from his pockets, Dave's shoulders shake. Laughing, you presume. [Veggietales doesn't talk back, bro. What have you been smoking?]

"Apparently, fucking common sense." You roll your eyes and turn your back to him. Out of habit, you announce this shift in conversational setting. "I'm leaving. I've had enough of this… This is beyond bullshit. I don't even know what this is anymore."

* * *

**Your name is Dave Strider…**

"Yeah. Whatever." You breathe a long sigh of discontent. "Sollux. _Sollux!_ All I want is for you to fix my shades."

There's a nasal hum from the other side of the counter you're leaning on. Then, a voice with an obvious lisp responds. "Fine. You want the same deal? Dark black, almost opaque?" There comes a chorus of clatters and quiet clicks as (you assume) he fiddles with your broken shades.

"You're rooming with KK now, right?"

"Hm?" It takes you a moment to process what he's said. When it finally clicks, you offer little more than a swift nod. "Yeah. I guess he's okay. Not the worst person I've had to live with. The award for that definitely goes to my older brother."

"Not John?" Though he tries his best to hide it, you still pick up on a hint of a snicker.

And, knowing what Sollux is digging for, you decide to humor him. "Nah. He was great at French kissing. I can forgive him leaving his magic trick supplies and all that everywhere."

"Whatever, Strider." There's the undeniable lilt of a smirk in his voice. "I'll have your glasses fixed within the next week."

"A week?" You're not exactly upset, you're just disappointed. You feel like a concerned father, though you're fretting over glasses instead of a child. "Nothin sooner?"

"There's kicking you out of the store," he replies. "I'll have them done as soon as possible."

Understood. With furrowed brows, you offer a curt nod. "Got it. I'll be going."

"Sounds good," Sollux mutters.

You turn on your heel and make a quick exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's short but comments and shit are still welcome


	4. Reasons for me to know you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ["Blue" from _Cowboy Bebop_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pgdahnCtU0E)

**Your name is Karkat Vantas…**

You skim mindlessly through some bullshit reading you've been assigned. Something about ancient sociology. You genuinely could not care any less; in fact, if you cared less, you would surely cease to exist. Surely, you'd spiral into the endless abyss, leaving behind your corporeal being to fucking rot in its place. Like some sort of shitty, languid, misplaced tree—for all eternity, your corpse would simply wilt like some sort of freakish flower. Probably in the kitchen of your landlord. Oh, actually, that would be splendid! He'd have to deal with a stinking, rotting corpse forever.

Your mostly empty plastic cup of lemonade bounces. Obviously, something heavy has hit the table. Looking up, you find that it's a massive box, dropped by none other than Dave Strider. He stands there, with a nonchalant look on his face and an air of disinterest to him. Reading as much from his lips as you can, you ascertain that this is a new rug. This would explain the heft. Nonetheless, he could have been courteous enough to wait for you to get up. Or at least finish your drink.

You let forth a loud huff of frustration.

This causes him to jump. His brows furrow. [Well shit. When did you get here?]

"I've been here, you clueless fucknugget." You dig into your pocket and pull out a small packet of tissues. You lay them out like blankets to soak as much lemonade from your now-soggy textbook as you can. "This was a rental," you grumble.

[Congrats. You have a new souvenir of your college days.] He smiles at the end of this comment. You're not sure if he's absolutely clueless or if he's as much of a jerk as he look like he is. If you had feathers, they'd be bristling right now. If you were a snake, you'd be rearing to strike. It hasn't even been a half a month and you're already about to punch this fucker in the face. 

"I've done it. I've found hell on earth." You groan, rise from your spot at the dining room table, and begin to gather your things. "Satan is some blond fucker with the emotional range of fucking teaspoon, and the eternal fiery domain is some generic shithole apartment. How lovely." As your textbook slams closed, you kick your chair back under the table. "Fucking destroy me. Rip my soul from my corporeal being and cast it into the deepest, most ineluctable pits of the furthest ring of the underworld."

Dave smirks. Pushing his shades up with the tip of his thumb, he reveals that he's rolling his eyes. It's a dramatic over the top gesture, and it's concluded with a terse reply. [Thanks, Dante. Have fun in the inferno.]

You respond with what you'd like to imagine is a bitter laugh. You're unsure of how it really comes across, but you'll stick with the intended meaning of the gesture. "Go shove a cactus up your ass, you pompous shitstain."

[Maybe I find that hot.] His smirk grows wider. With a casual exhalation—a huff of air from the side of his mouth—he turns. He offers a nonchalant wave before departing.

You're unsure of where he's going, but you'll be damned overjoyed if it's anywhere that doesn't include you.

* * *

**Your name is Dave Strider…**

And boy do you have some shit to say about a certain dork by the name of John Egbert. Now, John was your best friend in middle school. In fact, the friendship lasted through high school. You both went to the same university, too; you dropped out, of course. Before that, though, you were roommates with him. For your entire freshman year, actually, you were roommates with him. And you're sure as fuck not complaining. John was a pretty decent roommate, barring his shitty movie posters and whatnot.

Fortunately, you never had to deal with looking at what Rose reported being a two foot tall poster of Nicholas Cage's face staring at you as you slept.

Now, John is most definitely your best friend. He's solidly positioned within the 'pretty cool guy' square on the grand chessboard of life. Besides, he narrates videos without visual descriptions for you. And he does it with such grace. Such splendor.

"Two children in a golf cart are screaming as they hurdle to their inevitable deaths at the hands of the unseen antagonist, the meaning of life." John's narration is at the perfect volume. You can still hear the main audio from the show.

Nonetheless, you must object. "I doubt that the meaning of life is the enemy here." You smirk. "Truly, the real enemy is the economy."

Judging by the fact that there's a click and the show suddenly shuts up, you assume that John's put it on pause. "This is a show about children searching for paranormal activity, you dork."

"They could just borrow it from me," you quip. "I own it on DVD."

An exasperated sigh. "Whatever, Dave." After this, John does a terrible job of stifling a snicker. "How's living with Karkat going?"

"Nothing bad, nothing good. It's better than stepping on your dirty fucking socks every two minutes." Your smirk grows as John responds with another laugh. "Whatever. Let's keep watching these kids speed away from…"

"The inevitable heat death of the universe," you interject.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's short.


	5. Do you believe in magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> everyone knows this song let's be real here

**Your name is Karkat Vantas…**

You've been living with Dave for about a month now. Things are the same as ever. You're about to light all of your assignments on fire as you screech, standing naked in the middle of campus, at the full moon. Dave is annoying. But, the more you think about it, the stranger he seems. Sure, there's the obvious. There's his shitty personality. But there's something more.

For one thing, the place seems to be constantly surrounded by birds. And not just any birds. Crows. It's only ever crows. It's like shit straight out of _Birds_. They peck at the windows at night and roost on the window ledges. You're not exaggerating when you say that there are three nests on the same ledge outside of your bathroom. And you've seen them doing things. Not bird things. They flock around Dave from time to time. You've seen him wandering around, sometimes with one of those fucking crows on his shoulder. They seem to screech—or let forth whatever ungodly sound they make—when he tries to cross a busy road. They pick up his dropped change and keys.

[What can I say? I'm good with birds. I'm the Birdman. Maybe I'm a cryptid.] He'd brushed you off when you asked about it.

Now, though, you're getting annoyed. He seems to ignore your commentary, instead offering his usual brand of bullshit as an answer.

"You're telling me you've trained wild birds to pick up your keys and alert you to speeding cars?" You grill him. You watch as he offers little more than a disinterested shrug and begins eating his pizza.

[I'm good with animals.] His left hand forms an "O," then moves slightly forward as it shifts to a "K." [Okay?]

"NO!" You groan. Judging by his wince at your reply, your volume was spot on. "Not okay! What the actual fuck is this?"

Again, he shrugs. He begins to casually dig through his pockets, eventually managing to pull out a cigarette. Or, at least, it looks like one. It's bigger. You're guessing it's not a cigarette, but you'll keep calling that. Because fuck it. He sticks it in his mouth and lights it with what you're quick to notice is an empty lighter. "So, what? You just produce fire with the pure essence of your massive goddamned ego?"

His frown seems indicative of the fact that he's at least mildly surprised by your question. [It's not empty.] He answers swiftly. His brows are furrowed. His jaw set. [You sure are nosy.]

"It's fucking weird. _you're_ fucking weird." What you're guessing was a loud, but most definitely exasperated breath escapes you. You grip the edge of the table, feeling as if you'd somehow feel better if you did the cliché thing and flipped it. "I don't get it!"

He merely smirks. [There's nothing to get.]

You, unable to stand this shitty runaround, push yourself and your seat away from the table. "I give up," you proclaim, "I give the fuck up."

* * *

**Your name is Dave Strider…**

And you just _might_ be a bit magical. Not I the metaphorical sense. Well… You certainly have a magical personality, at least in your opinion. No, what you're trying to say here is that you have what would be considered fantasy powers. Magic. It's not the wand-waving sort, of course. It _could_ be, but you prefer it to be more subtle. There's no need to make yourself more of a target than you already are.

You can do some odd shit. That's the gist of it. Usually, you keep the flashier stuff for entertaining others. Hence your secondary form of income. You are, first and foremost, a musician. But, in your downtime, you partner with Rose as a local magic act. It's a familial thing. Runs in the family, so on and so forth.

The real point here is that, after doing your best to discourage your new housemate from looking into your personal business, you went to a scheduled magic gig. A wedding, actually. You were hired to keep the kids occupied.

Unfortunately for you, Rose ended up with the flu. Clearly, the world is conspiring against you. So, you had no other option but to ask the last person you'd ever want to ask.

John has class. Kanaya's taking care of Rose. All your other friends are scattered across the country, with Jade being in the goddamned Pacific Islands for college.

You do your best to downplay it. You keep your usual acts out of the rotation. Karkat is definitely watching, and you're not about to open the whole can of magical worms on him.

"And what card do you have now?" You ask what sounds to be a thoroughly bored teenager. Someone no more than fifteen years old, and that's pushing it.

And, living up to the voice, the response is dry and humorless. "You're blind, jackass. You wouldn't know what card I pulled in the first place if it got lodged in your eyeball."

_A fair enough conclusion._

You've got to play it off, though. "That's part of the magic," you lie.

"Whatever." You deem this voice to be Dismissive Shit 1. Or DS1 for short. "You already did this trick. Three times."

Another voice jumps in. Dismissive Shit 2. "Yeah," sneers this voice. "We were told we'd have a cool magician. Not some lame hack."

"Now, hey," you say this in the calmest voice you can muster. "I'm doing my best."

"Your best sucks." DS3. You were told you were entertaining kids, not shitty teenage ingrates.

You fumble with your supplies, only to get a solid kick in the shin. In keeping with what you've learned over the years, you show no reaction. One step back. Continue the show.

Seeing as Karkat is here to drive you back, you figure he's still watching. So, you continue showing the mundane sort of crap that John taught you. "This handkerchief—"

"This bag is just kitschy shit," declares Dismissive Shit 2. This is followed by the clattering of items against the ground. "This guy sucks.

"Take your crappy act somewhere else, loser." Dismissive Shit 3.

Dismissive Shit 4, however, ends up being the newcomer to pack a punch. By now, you're guessing these are middle schoolers. Maybe high school freshmen at best. "What's this? Your magic wand?"

"Hey!" At this point, you're done putting up with this shit. You're willing to lose your secondary income and reputation to get out. "Whose kids are these? Someone get these kids, dammit!" The fall leaves rustle, crunching as someone moves behind you and deals enough of a blow to the spot behind your left knee to send you to the ground. "Your parents are going to be pissed at you brats."

"Prove it." There's a gut-wrenching snap. The footsteps fade, and you find yourself in the middle of fucking nowhere. You know that noise, and you're keenly aware of the fact that you're now stuck until a decent human being shows up to help.

* * *

**Your name is Karkat Vantas…**

You've lived with Dave Strider for about a month. You've learned little more than paltry facts about him. He wakes up around 8:00 every day. He plays guitar and mixes music. He's a sucker for dogs, and he's a pro at avoiding any questions he doesn't want to answer.

Right now, though, he seems like someone completely different. He's got an iron grip on your shoulder. His nails dig into you like talons as he hands over an envelope containing what seems to be a check.

You're not sure what you're seeing go down, but you're damned sure it's not good.

Of course, you could've figured that much when you found him alone, near the edge of the venue, with nothing more than an emptied bag and a broken cane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUCK IT let's add a plot

**Author's Note:**

> what the fuck does the song of purple summer even mean????


End file.
